Fanfic100: Professor Layton
by Candyland
Summary: One hundred themes for one hundred stories about our favorite puzzle obsessive professor and his apprentice. — Bump in the Night: The professor goes out of town for a night, leaving Luke and Flora alone. After all, how much can happen in one night? —
1. Color Me Surprised

**Title:** Color Me Surprised  
**Fandom:** Professor Layton  
**Characters:** Layton, Luke (General series)  
**Prompt:** #12: orange  
**Word Count:** 507  
**Rating:** G  
**Author's Notes:** I do not own Professor Layton or his Top Hat of Awesome.  
**Summary:** Sometimes even Professor Layton makes mistakes.

* * *

Taking care of very young children can be a challenge. Of course, that's a bit like saying that water is wet or sand is dry or Don Paolo is six tacos short of a dozen.

Layton tended to view challenges and puzzles in the same light: as things to be met, resolved, and passed by. Granted, with a child as young as Luke around, passing one molehill generally meant there was a small mountain looming just over the horizon, but it was merely one in a series of challenges. And all were immensely rewarding.

Still, sometimes he managed to be surprised.

Luke was learning his colors. Layton had gone about things in the traditional way of naming the color of every single thing he saw (something he had started doing regularly now out of habit, receiving a raised eyebrow from the grocer at his request for three orange carrots, please), and now he had handed Luke a set of flashcards and told him to practice.

Now, sitting in his study with a book in his hands, Layton felt calm and relaxed. Luke was playing with the aforementioned flashcards on the floor, and a fire roaring on the hearth provided the only light in the room, casting a warm band of shadows across the walls. It felt snug, secure, and a bit old-fashioned, just how Layton liked things.

A tug on his sleeve drew him away from his book for a moment. He glanced down at Luke and smiled at the boy. "What is it, my boy?"

Luke smiled a toddler's smile and held up a flashcard. "Professor, what color is this?"

Layton's eyes skimmed over the proffered card in the darkened room before returning to the page of his book. "That's red, Luke."

There was a pause as Luke studied the card. Then, to Layton's shock, the boy reached up and patted the professor on the arm. "That was a good try, Professor, but it is orange."

Thus satisfied, Luke turned and toddled back to the center of the floor, a gaping Layton staring at him.

…had he just gotten (as the kids would say) _schooled_ by a four-year-old?

* * *

**PS.** _I swore I wasn't going to do this again, dammit. I swore it, I resisted, I fought it, and then I decided that fanfic100 really needed a Layton set to grace its hallowed halls…err, postings? Plus, my BFF **Magic Kaito **is doing it for Organization XIII from Kingdom Hearts, and I signed up for solidarity! So yes, I'm doing it. We'll see how long it takes, loves._

_For the record? This is a BOATS fic (based on a true story), in which my little cousin completely owned my father in the fashion you see here. We still giggle about it now and then. Thanks for reading! Much love!_


	2. Lights Out

**Title: **Lights Out  
**Fandom: **Professor Layton  
**Characters: **Luke/Flora (General series)  
**Prompt: **#52: fire  
**Word Count: **1580 words  
**Rating: **PG  
**Author's Notes: **I don't own Layton or his Top Hat of Awesome.  
**Summary: **Sometimes interesting things can happen during a blackout.

* * *

Luke dropped the final log into the fireplace with a half-hearted groan and sat back down on the floor. "Whew...those things are kind of heavy," he said. "But it's better than sitting in the dark, right? The candle's really not doing much." He gestured towards the white taper of wax in Flora's hand.

She shrugged before kneeling down and guiding the flame towards the logs now heaped unceremoniously in the fireplace. It took a few seconds for the dry timber to ignite and begin first to smolder, than to outright burn. She lit a couple of other places, then sat back to watch the fireplace finally come to life and light. Satisfied, she blew out the candle and slide the fire screen into place to keep all the burning materials inside the fireplace where they belonged.

Slowly, the light of the fire grew and filled the room, offering much more light than the poor candle had. It was a far cozier scene than the one of only a few moments ago, when the lights had all gone out.

The two had been sitting up late together, working on various teenaged things of great importance that very much could not wait until the next morning, Professor, so please don't worry they wouldn't be up all night. The Professor had gone to bed and left them to their work with admonishments to get some sleep. And the two teenagers had set about their tasks, feeling oddly rebellious.

Then the storm had begun. Luke started ribbing Flora about ghosts and ghouls (as most sixteen year old boys would probably do in such a situation), and Flora had made vague comments about maturity and idiots (as most seventeen year old girls would probably do in such a situation). But the banter had come to a screeching halt when there was a flash of lightning, a roar of thunder, and then...

Darkness.

All the lights in the house went out.

It had taken Flora a moment to locate a candle and get it lit, and from there, the two decided to build the fire in the fireplace. Now the old brownstone's office didn't seem quite so dark or frightening.

Not that either of them would ever admit to being frightened, of course.

Flora scooted back a bit, a little away from the hearth, to sit next to Luke. "It's sort of like camping, isn't it?" she asked in a conspiratorial whisper. "Like some sort of adventure is about to happen. I mean, if this were a novel, this is probably where the crazed killer would start creeping towards his unsuspecting victims or something."

Luke laughed, and then got to his feet. He held out one hand, as though he was gripping a dagger, and began doing an exaggerated tip-toeing motion around the room. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he said in a deep, gravelly voice.

Now it was Flora's turn to laugh out loud. "I'm terrified. Truly."

Luke grinned. "Or if it were a horror story, the ghosts would start coming out to stalk the living and drag them to the underworld. Or, you know, move furniture around, rattle some chains, say 'boo' here and there. I guess it depends on the ghost."

"Or the undead would start walking the streets in search of human victims!" This time it was Flora who jumped up. She held her hands out in front of her, fingers curved like claws, and started staggering around the room. "Brains..." she chanted repeatedly.

"Or a vampire!" Luke cheered. "I vant to suck your blood."

Both teens all but collapsed to the ground in a fit of giggles. The self appointed tasks that had kept them both up long past the times when they usually retired were more or less forgotten as they lost themselves in the silly conversation. Outside the windows, the storm continued to rage. The wind howled at the windows, as though demanding to be let in to join them in their fun.

"Okay, we've done thriller, horror...oh, how about an adventure story!" Flora said.

"Easy! The lights are out in the building because the bad guy has cut the power, and so now he has to sneak around in the dark and try not to get killed by all the spies lurking around," Luke said, looking around. "They could be anywhere, you know."

"Are there spies in the Professor's house?" Flora asked, then shook her head. "I knew that ancient Aztec statue was suspicious. It's clearly feeding information to outside sources. We should be careful what we say in this room. The walls have ears."

Luke snickered. In public company, Flora was every bit the young lady she was expected to be. In more relaxed moments, she was stubborn, sarcastic, and at times outright brilliant. Luke liked the latter side of her personality far more than he enjoyed the former.

"In a comedy...well, in a comedy, I think they'd be having this exact conversation, to be honest. Or a pie would fly out of the fireplace and hit one of us in the face," Luke said. "Hmm...oh! What about one of those sappy romance stories I've seen you reading when you think no one else is looking?"

"At least the books I read have something that could theoretically be called a plot. When was the last time you picked up a book with an actual storyline, Puzzle Boy?" Flora asked with a quirk of one brow. Still, she thought. "Well, if this were a romance story, we'd be sitting by the fire, and I'd probably lean my head on your shoulder..." she scooted a bit closer to put words into action, "...and then you'd probably kiss me."

"Like I said, sappy. And no, those do not count as plots."

"I said theoretically."

They both laughed (goodness, there had been a lot of laughter in the short span of this discussion, hadn't there?), and then fell quiet for a momet. Flora's head remained on Luke's shoulder; it was a surprisingly comfortable position for the both of them.

"So what type of story are we in?" Luke asked after a moment.

"I haven't seen any ghosts or monsters, and there aren't any spies except for the Aztec statue," Flora said. "And I don't think there's a murderer on the loose, unless he's upstairs, in which case we should go check on the Professor. That leaves comedy or romance."

"And I don't see any flying pies, and we are both still clean, so..." Luke sighed. "Great."

"Oh, hush!" Flora gave him a swat on the arm.

Luke glanced at her. "Is this a kissing book?"

She stared back at him. "I can't believe you just asked me that. How old are you again?"

Luke responded in an elegant, graceful, and mature manner: he stuck his tongue out at her.

Flora's response was slightly more age appropriate: she rolled her eyes.

"So what would happen if this was a romance story?" Luke asked.

"This is the part where you'd kiss me," she said.

Luke considered this for a moment. "Do you want me to?"

Now it was her turn to think. "...do you want to?" she finally answered.

"I asked you first."

"Again with the five years old thing."

"You're not answering my question."

"You're not answering mine."

After a moment, Flora sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder again, an action which met with no objections. "Mind if I be completely unladylike for a moment? ...because this entire conversation has been so completely appropriate, of course."

"Go ahead."

"Yes."

It took Luke a moment to realize what she'd said, and it took him a moment longer to remember how to think, breathe, and other such things which were alleged necessities to everyday life. By the time he had once again gathered his wits about him, Flora was sitting up next to him, their shoulders brushing as she watched him uncertainly.

...she was awfully pretty, a fact which Luke had noticed on previous occasions, but never really let himself pay too much attention to. He took a deep breath, swallowed hard to dislodge the lump that had suddenly taken up residence in his throat, and said, "...okay."

There was a pause of awkward proportions before they both shifted to face each other a little more. Taking a cue from some movie he had once watched, Luke lifted a hand and cupped her cheek as they both leaned in for the kill, and...

...wow.

It was awkward, as most first kisses are. But it didn't stay that way for long. Both pulled back for a moment, looked at each other, and mutually seemed to decide that this was fun and they should go back for more. Plenty more.

Neither noticed the door to the room cracking open just a fraction. Nor did they notice someone peering through said crack into the room to see what was going on in there. The watchful eye studied the scene for a moment. And certainly neither of them noticed when a mouth quirked into a smile of amusement.

He had rather been expecting this for a time. Trusting that the children would behave themselves, the Professor closed the door and went back to bed.

* * *

**AN:** _I'm still alive! Honest! This odd little scene was originally going to be in another longer fic I was planning, which sort of fell by the wayside. But I loved the scene, strange as it is, and decided to write it as a stand-alone. What can I say?_

_Also, this is the start of NaNoWriMo, and this fanfic100 challenge is sort of my main focus (although I will be working on some other things as well). Let's see how far I can get in fifty thousand words! Thanks for reading, all! Much love!_


	3. Coming to Light

**Title:** Coming to Light  
**Fandom:** Professor Layton  
**Characters:** Bill Hawks (General series)  
**Prompt:** #3: ends  
**Word Count:** 2,819 words  
**Rating:** PG  
**Author's Notes:** I do not own Professor Layton or his Top Hat of Awesome.  
**Summary:** What goes around comes around. Sooner or later, everyone has to pay the piper. MASSIVELY MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR GAME THREE.

* * *

In hindsight, he knew he should have seen this coming. Sooner or later, this was bound to happen. But he hadn't. He really, truly, somehow...hadn't. And now he was left wondering how that could possibly be.

Misdeeds will always come to light, he had heard said. What goes around comes around. What you do unto others will come back unto three times over. Sooner or later everyone has to pay the piper. The very concept of karma.

Now, sitting along in his office, Bill Hawks was left only to wait for the moment to come.

At first, he had been certain he could ride this out and use the entire situation to his advantage. He was abducted and held prisoner by a scientist and a young man with a serious ax to grind. Said young man had then awakened an enormous machine, with every intention of razing London to the ground in the name of vengeance, of destroying this world and its corruption and rebuilding it to be more in his own view of justice and fairness.

Bill had been quick to point the police in the direction of the young man, named Clive, and have him arrested as a great threat to national security. And for a time, he was riding high on a wave of public support and applause. His colleagues in government were impressed by his bravery, and his constituents shook their heads and tut-tutted and wondered what was wrong with today's youth and the poor young man must be wrong in the head.

For a time, it was brilliant.

And then the first signs of unrest began to stir.

At Clive's trial some weeks after the incident, he spoke of his parents' deaths when the prototype time machine exploded. And he mentioned what he had learned of the disaster. A name came up as one of the scientists involved in the project: Bill Hawks.

Not long after that, the public began to express an interest in the truth of what had happened that day. Slowly but surely, the whispers grew to conversations, to dull roars, and finally to demanding shouts, wanting the truth. What had been the Prime Minister's involvement in the alleged accident that had set all of this off so long ago?

And then HE spoke up on the matter.

Professor Hershel Layton made a public appeal to reopen the case.

Hershel Layton, the respected professor at Gressenhauler University.

Hershel Layton, who had solved cases for police forces all over Britain.

Hershel Layton, a man of unmatched standing and reputation in London.

Hershel Layton, who was hailed by the newspapers as the true hero of the incident, the man who had stopped Clive's rampage.

Hershel Layton, who had a tie just as personal to the time machine explosion a decade past.

Bill thought he had dissuaded Layton from exploring the case back then, with the judicious application of a thug in a dark alley on a rainy night. And for a time, he had thought himself right. But Layton had never quite let go of that incident, and now that the chance was there, he was leaping at it.

And the public responded. Layton's reputation was enough to sway public opinion to his view and demand that the case be reopened. After all, if there was nothing dark about the case, then why was it closed so quickly, without resolution? And if it was all perfectly benign, just a sad accident, then what harm was there in looking back into it? It wouldn't cause anyone any personal damage now, so long after the fact.

Bill Hawks fought it. He tried to argue that the case should be left in the past where it belonged, that there was nothing to be gained from opening it now, that it was over. But his protests fell on deaf ears and surprisingly unforgiving ground. More than one editorial columnist wondered why the esteemed Prime Minister seemed to determined to keep this case shut. The sound of skeletal bones could be heard quite clearly rattling about in someone's closet, one mused.

When a judge formally announced that the case was to be reopened and thoroughly examined by a specially appointed committee, Bill wondered if he was done for. But he kept his head high and carried on, still certain that they couldn't prove his complicity. After all, what had he really done wrong? It wasn't like he had personally rigged the thing to explode.

He was still considering himself far above it all when the committee formally started their investigation. He observed as they went over the old files and news clippings and investigative reports from a decade ago, certain that there was nothing there that would affect him.

But his hopes were dashed somewhat when they announced an inquest, to be held in the courthouse, where they would interview persons involved in the incident to see if new information could be ascertained. It was to be a public inquiry, no less; there was no way they could shut the general population out and not have a riot. The newspapers would be welcome to attend and report as details, old and new, were brought to light.

The story was enormous, and the public was dying for more information. The disapproving sniffs regarding uncouth young men who were clearly wrong in the head had shifted to curious whispers, wondering if perhaps his madness was not inherent, but had somehow been thrust upon him by the incident that had taken his parents from him, and what a poor lad, he needed help and guidance and what was the world coming to.

The police who had investigated the explosion at the time of occurrence were the first ones on the stand. Some were still in law enforcement, while others had left the force to pursue other avenues. But they all told largely the same story: they had been looking into it, following all rules and procedures, when they had been ordered to close the case. No explanation, no resolution, no nothing. Just close the case and put it on the shelf.

All admitted that they had felt odd about this, and wondered what had prompted their superior officers to issue such an order. More than one said that they had wondered if there was a higher party pulling some strings for some reason, and there was a general consensus that the whole affair had left a bad taste in their mouths. Two cited the incident as the reason they had left the force.

One by one, the men spoke, and one by one, they were thanked for their time and honesty, and stepped down. Warning bells were already going off. Why had the investigation been stopped when people had died?

Then Professor Hershel Layton himself, one of the prime movers and shakers behind this entire fiasco, stepped up to take the stand and explain his connection to the case and experiences with it. He spoke of hurrying there, to find the place engulfed in flames and smoke and the smell of burning and death. He recounted how he had stopped a boy from running back in to search for his parents (later pronounced dead). And there was a pronounced gasp in the room when he detailed the assault he had suffered, prompting him to close his own investigation into his girlfriend's death.

If anyone noticed the slight tremor to his voice at that part, no comment was made on it.

Layton's testimony took up the whole of the afternoon, as those of the police had filled the morning. After Layton was thanked and stepped down, the official presiding over the affair announced that the inquest would reconvene the next morning for further testimony. Bill Hawks saw Layton leave with his young ward at his side; she held onto his arm, whispered something to him, and he nodded to her.

He also shook hands with several government officials and exchanged what seemed to be hushed words. Bill made his escape fairly quickly. Although it was now clear that someone had interfered with the investigation, there was nothing to point in his direction.

The next morning, after a brief recap of the testimonies of the previous day, another witness to the time machine explosion took the stand. Dimitri Allen seemed nervous, but otherwise resolute at what he was about to do. And he told the truth.

Yes, he had played a part in the Prime Minister's kidnapping. Yes, he understood the severity of his actions and would face the consequences of those actions when the time came. Yes, he'd had a very good reason for what he had done, and this was it.

It was the first time any sort of direct accusation had been laid against the Prime Minister in regards to the whole mess, and the reaction was immediate. The crowd gathered in the courtroom was shocked. In the back of the room, Hawks had remained silent, not permitting himself any expression whatsoever. But he watched with growing anger as Allen told the entire story of Claire's death and Bill's subsequent sale of the technology, the income from which funded his rise to power.

By the time Dimitri Allen stepped down, the room was buzzing, and the judge ordered a recess as the next witness was brought in for testimony. Bill fled the room, leaving behind a sea of hostile faces and suspicious words. It couldn't get any worse, it was just hearsay, they could prove nothing against him.

When he returned for the next witness, he was shocked.

Somehow, he suspected that Layton had played a substantial role in procuring Clive's testimony before the tribunal on this day. After all, the young man was serving a prison sentence for what he had done, and the guards who were called in before he began his testimony attested that he was a model prisoner, willingly serving his penance. Character witnesses, Hawks realized bitterly. Encouraging everyone to listen to what the boy said and pay it heed.

The young man looked mature and somber as he walked to the front of the room, Inspector Chelmey at his side to act as an escort. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, blue tie, black shoes, the proper dress for such a serious occasion. Again, Bill suspected Layton's hand in that. Looking at him now, one never would have suspected that such a calm, well-dressed lad had almost single-handedly leveled London.

Appearance is key in how people perceive you, Bill recalled. If you appear mature and well turned out, then people are more likely to take you seriously and listen to what you have to say. Clive was playing that part to perfection, probably with a bit of help.

Rumors had been swirling about this young man in the weeks following his arrest and trial. Public opinion had shifted from outright horror and disdain to curiosity over what could cause such madness in one so young, and even to some grudging admiration for his skills, his planning and what he had managed to build. The courtroom was silent as Clive began to speak, the assembly hanging on his every word.

He was calm, quiet, reserved, and spoke well. He told of being outside, playing in the street near the building where he and his parents lived, and hearing the explosion. He remembered trying to run inside to find his parents, but a man in a hat had stopped him. A very small smile had graced Clive's lips at that statement, like it was some private joke that no one else in the room was privy to.

Bill did noticed a similar expression crossing Layton's face at the same time, though. How odd, that one brief moment in time, where two people's paths crossed for just a second, would have such profound results so far down the line.

Continuing, Clive told of how he had grown up, the fortune left to him, and his subsequent frustrations with the lack of justice in the incident that had left his parents and so many others dead. He had learned of the truth, of Bill Hawks selling out, and had set about to raze the government to the ground. He viewed it as corrupt, letting innocent people go without justice in death in favor of letting guilty parties assume positions of power.

He was sorry that so many people had suffered because of his desire for justice, he said solemnly. While his madness may not have been entirely his own fault, his actions were his own, and he accepted the consequences of them. Those who had suffered because of what he had done would not suffer the same lack of justice that he had. They, at least, would know that the one who had harmed them was paying for his crimes.

Previous testimonies had left the room buzzing with whispered conversations. As Clive left, quietly and demurely under his equally silent police escort, the room was void of sound. A person could have dropped a pin on the carpet, and it would have been audible.

The committee presiding over the inquiry announced a recess while they consulted. After a few moments, they returned and started everyone by declaring the testimonies on hold while they investigated the accusations made against Prime Minister Bill Hawks.

The wheels of justice, long disused in this case, began to turn. Slowly at first, and with much groaning and creaking. But they began to gain momentum, pick up speed, until finally it was announced that investigations had turned up evidence supporting the claims that Bill Hawks, the Prime Minister and reported victim of the recent devastating events, had in fact had a direct hand in causing an accident ten years ago that had claimed lives and set off a chain of events leading up to the more recent events, which had nearly destroyed the city.

All for the sake of money, and a pursuit of power.

Public opinion was swift and vicious.

And now, three weeks after that fateful day in the courtroom when Clive had issued his own statement, Bill Hawks sat in his office, looking around at all the trappings of his seat. Big desk. Large office. Fantastic view of the city out the window. All the intricate workings of the government were stowed away in the cabinets on his walls, and books detailing the history of his country and his office lined the bookcases.

In a fairly short amount of time, that would be taken away from him.

Damn Claire. Damn Dimitri. Damn that Clive boy...

A knock on the door roused him from his reveries. He glanced up as one of his secretaries entered. "The press is waiting for you, sir," the man said, his face bland and expressionless.

With a sigh and one final glance around, Bill rose from his chair for what he was sure to be the final time, and followed the man through the door to meet his fate at the hands of the public, the media, and his colleagues in Parliament.

Damn that Hershel Layton.

Damn them all.

* * *

**AN:** _One of the only things about game three that bothered me was that it appeared Bill Hawks was getting off scot-free. He essentially caused the deaths of all those people, and didn't really suffer for it at all. So I fixed it! BEHOLD THE POWER OF FANFICTION._

_And wow, I'm sort of shocked. I figured this would be a quick little fic. And then Clive decided he wanted to be in the story, and it started to grow. Go figure! I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading, all! Much love!_


	4. Drunk Dial

**Title:** Drunk Dial  
**Fandom:** Professor Layton  
**Characters:** Luke, Layton  
**Prompt:** #60: drink  
**Word Count:** 1829 words  
**Rating:** PG  
**Author's Notes:** I do not own Professor Layton or his Top Hat of Awesome.  
**Summary:** Luke's starting university, and experiencing everything that goes along with it.

* * *

When the day finally came that a very grown-up Luke Triton was prepared to enter university and begin working towards his chosen career path, a very proud Professor Layton sat down with his protégé to discuss some very important things about university life.

First off, Professor Layton said, your studies must come first. Secondly, I expect you to be a gentleman for the most part. Thirdly, you are going to have a great deal more freedom, so please be careful. Finally, I think it best if you live on campus. One can only get the true university experience if one is residing in the hellholes known as dormitories amidst hundreds of other noisy, badly-behaving students.

Luke listened to the Professor's lecture solemnly as his eighteen year old ears translated the Professor's words.

First of all, you should probably pay attention to some of that boring stuff at some point or another. Secondly, there will be girls there, and it would be nice if you at least attempted to behave yourself, not that I'll actually know whether you do or not. Thirdly, go nuts and have fun. Finally, you're moving into a place where having a blast and making trouble is almost a requirement, and you should probably attempt to maximize your true university experience.

If Layton was surprised at how well Luke seemed to be taking this talk and how enthusiastically he agreed, he did not voice his surprise.

Plans were made, and when the big day finally came, Luke was ecstatic to be moving into the dorms and out from under the Professor's roof. As he pointed out to a still-concerned Professor, they were in the same city. It wasn't like he was that far away, and if he got homesick, he could easily pop in for a visit. But the Professor was not allowed to "check up on him." That was a no-no.

Layton tried very hard not to feel that there was anything ominous in those words. When his apprentice was all squared away, he left Luke in the dormitories, already engaged in animated conversation with the two young men in the room across the hall. He heard the word "baseball" as he slipped down the stairs and back out to the Laytonmobile.

And so it came to pass that Luke began his university career at Layton's own Gressenhauller U.

**_-o-_**

When a loud ringing sound cracked through the otherwise silent night at three AM (give or take a few minutes), Layton was jolted out of a particularly restful sleep. After sitting up and glancing back and forth whilst muttering something about pineapples (no, he didn't know where it came from), he realized that the ringing was neither his alarm clock nor a siren, but the phone.

He stumbled to his feet and walked to the phone, stifling a yawn with one hand and threading the other hand through hair that was suffering from a rather severe case of bedhead. Not that it mattered how he looked. The person on the other end of the line couldn't actually see him. But it was the principle of the thing.

Yawning one more time, he picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. "'lo?" Let it never be said that Professor Hershel Layton was a morning person. At least not at three o'clock in the morning.

"Hi, Professor!" Luke's baritone cheered from the other end of the line. He punctuated the greeting with a small giggle.

"Luke, what is it?" Layton asked, confused. Luke sounded strange, like something was off. But his sleep-fogged mind was having difficulty pinning down what exactly that odd note in Luke's voice was. He knew that it was something he could identify, but…

"Professor, the room is spinnin'. How do I make't stop?" Luke slurred.

That was when Layton's mind finally drank its mental coffee and woke up. "Luke, my boy, are you drunk?"

"Noooo…" Luke said. "…maybe."

Layton was silent for a moment.

Luke took the opportunity to once again ask his question. "Professor, the room's spinnin'. I'm gettin' dizzy. Make't stop?"

Contrary to popular belief, Layton had been young once upon a time and had, at one point or another, gone a wee bit overboard. But once was enough for him to learn his lesson on that particular front. Still, he knew a few things about Luke's current predicament. Sighing, he leaned against the wall. "Try putting one foot on the floor to steady yourself."

He heard shuffling. Then Luke slurred at him again. "I got one foot on th'floor, and one on th'wall. S'not helping."

Layton sighed again. "Then try putting both feet on the floor."

There was a pause before Luke spoke again. "…but then won' I be standin'?"

Layton gave up. "Tell the room to stop, and go to sleep."

**_-o-_**

It had been a silly misstep, just a moment of poor timing combined with bad luck whilst on an otherwise uneventful investigation, but it had resulted in Layton crashing headfirst into a wall. The resulting blow had actually rendered the Professor momentarily unconscious. When he had opened his eyes, he had been lying half on his side and half on his back, his vision blurred and unfocused.

All he had really wanted to do was close his eyes and go right back to sleep, but the emergency personnel who had been on the scene had strong advised against that. He had been taken to the nearest hospital, where he had kept dozing off, only to be prodded awake every short while to answer questions about his name, his date of birth, and the capital of Japan. Someone contacted Luke (possibly a next of kin thing, which did absolutely nothing to ease Layton's aching mind), and his young apprentice came to see him.

Finally, he was permitted to go home with instructions to rest and not do anything too strenuous for several days. He sent Luke back to the university, insisting that he would be fine and Luke had his own responsibilities to attend to. The young man seemed skeptical, but he acquiesced. When he arrived at the safety of his home, he stumbled up the stairs and crashed into bed, pausing only long enough to remove his hat, coat, and shoes. He was asleep before his head landed somewhere in the general vicinity of his pillow.

It was some time later that he was awakened by the phone ringing. The sound was like a railroad spike going straight through his ears. He managed to lurch to the phone, and after a moment of fumbling, picked it up and managed a greeting.

Luke's voice cheered at him from the other end of the phone. "Life is lifey, wind is breezy, and you're brain-damaged!"

Layton hung up the phone and went back to bed.

**_-o-_**

As the end of the semester arrived and the winter holiday drew close, Layton came up to help his apprentice move back home for the break. He arrived at the dorm and knocked on the door. Several minutes passed with no reply. He knocked again.

And again.

And once more.

Finally, the door cracked open, and Luke peered out. "Whaddya want?"

The young man, for lack of a more eloquent phrase, looked like hell. His eyes were glazed and exhausted, there were thick black smudges under his eyes, and he was standing like the doorframe was the only thing keep him upright. "'fessor?"

"Luke, what's wrong?" For a moment, he wondered if the young man was ill, but there was something in the way he carried himself that didn't quite suggest flu or fever, and his pallor was pale, but not in a sickly fashion. It took the great Professor Layton a mere moment to put two and two together and land somewhere in the area of four. "Luke, what were you up to last night?"

The young man's eyes flickered to one side before he answered. "Nothing."

Bingo.

Layton had already resigned himself to two things. One, he was going to be doing the bulk of the packing and hauling here. Two, he and Luke were going to have a serious and lengthy talk about responsibility while Luke was home over this holiday. "Very well, Luke. Give me the keys to your car, and I'll bring it around to start loading things into it."

Now Luke looked directly at him. Or rather, ever so slightly to his left. And his eyes were as wide as his hangover would allow. The gears turning inside his head were almost audible. After a moment, he looked down.

No.

No. Way.

"Luke, where is your car?"

After a moment, the reply came in a whisper. "I'm…not…sure."

Layton's calm façade was gone. He openly gaped at his apprentice.

Luke visibly swallowed. "At least I didn't drive it home last night?"

As Layton did a flawless impression of a feeding goldfish, he decided that perhaps he should encourage Luke to move back home to the brownstone they had shared since Luke was a child. Or perhaps he should drag the boy off to a monastery and leave him there.

One or the other.

* * *

**PS.** _My friends on Plurk demanded drunken Luke, and lo, there was drunken Luke. The worst part of all this? All of the above alcohol-induced incidents are based on real things that my sister did when under the influence. Yes, **SHE LOST HER CAR**. I suppose we should be grateful that she didn't drive it home, and they did find it, safe and sound. So we can thank my sister for inspiring Luke's intoxicated antics._

_And yes, BASEBALL WAS IN THAR. Hope you at least got a giggle out of it. Thanks for reading! Much love!_


	5. All We Know of Heaven

**Title:** All We Know of Heaven  
**Fandom:** Professor Layton  
**Characters:** Layton/Claire  
**Prompt:** #71: broken  
**Word Count:** 2952 words  
**Rating:** PG  
**Author's Notes:** I do not own Professor Layton or his Top Hat of Awesome. This is a (slightly belated) graduation gift for SoulSeeker, who has been very patient with me. HOPE YOU LIKE IT, DARLING! This drew some inspiration from a Sherlock fanfic that I have subsequently lost the link to ;o;  
**Summary:** They were together, and it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Spoilers for Unwound Future.

* * *

When Hershel woke up, Claire was there, as cheerful as ever.

He spared a moment to be grateful that he had gotten dressed before he came downstairs from his bedroom (not that his pajamas were immodest, but it was the principle of the thing - a gentleman most certainly did not greet a lady guest in his pajamas unless extremely special circumstances were involved). And then he simply stood in the doorway and watched her for a time as she bustled around the kitchen in a flurry of clanging pots and cracking eggs.

She had yet to acknowledge his presence, but he knew her well enough to know that she was aware of her audience. If there was a bit more of a flourish to her movements as she sailed effortlessly around his kitchen, then who was he to point it out?

Finally, he spoke up. "Claire?"

Claire turned around, an expression of mock-surprise on her face. "Oh! Good morning, sleepyhead!" she cheered, giving a little wave with the spatula in her hand. "Did you have nice dreams?"

"I did," he said. "Claire, not that I mind, but what brings you to my home at this ungodly hour of the morning?"

"I thought I would surprise you with breakfast," she said. She now used the spatula to gesture towards the frying pan on the stove. Its contents were crackling and snapping loudly as they cooked. If the delicious smell was any indication, there was bacon in there. "Be a dear and make us some tea?"

In spite of the fact that for all he knew, she had broken into his flat to prepare him a surprise breakfast, he had to smile. She had an unpredictable streak in her that he found extremely endearing. "Well, who am I to refuse the request of a beautiful lady?" He made a motion with one hand, as though tipping his hat, and moved across the kitchen to the kettle as she laughed at him.

Breakfast was lovely.

**_-o-_**

"Don't you have to work today?" he asked as she made herself comfortable on the sofa.

"Don't you?" she teased in reply.

"Ah, the wonders of teaching and the beauty of the summer holiday," Hershel said with a smile. "Do you have an excuse?"

"I have the day off," she said airily. "So I thought I would spend it bothering you. Besides, it's raining, so there's not much to do outside." As if to prove the truth of her statement, there was a distant rumble of thunder outside the window, audible over the falling rain.

"Truly a fate worse than death," he said. He paused halfway to the sofa and frowned at the wall. "What in the world…?" A few steps took him over to the wall, where he ran a hand lightly over a rather sizable crack that had appeared, seemingly overnight, in the wall. It ran from the ceiling halfway down to the floor. "Where did this come from? I know this wasn't here last night."

She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe the building shifted? It is an older house, after all."

"You might be right. I'll call someone in to look at it first chance I get," he shook his head at the wall before he took a seat beside her. "So what shall it be today?"

He expected her to suggest a walk, or something of that nature. He was surprised when Claire vaulted off the sofa and bounded across the room to the bookcase. She stood there for a moment, one finger tapping thoughtfully at her chin as her eyes dragged over the spines of the volumes neatly arranged there. Finally, she appeared to make a decision, and with one long finger she pulled the chosen book from the shelf and came back across the room. Once comfortably seated on the couch, she passed him the book. "Read to me, Hershel."

Hershel glanced down at the book she had chosen; one eyebrow arched at the selection. "Sherlock Holmes?" he said.

"The Hound of the Baskervilles," she corrected him. "It's my favorite Holmes story."

"I actually knew that. How many times have you read this?"

"Many times. But you've never read it aloud to me. So this time will be a different experience," Claire told him in a matter-of-fact tone. "There are always ways to experience something familiar in a new light." As she spoke, she was busily grabbing a throw pillow and arranging herself on her end of the sofa, propping the pillow up against the arm of the couch and leaning on it, shifting around until she had found a comfortable position. She closed her eyes and waited.

With a smile and an indulgent shake of the head, Hershel opened the book to the first page. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table…"

When he finished reading, she made him some tea and asked him to read another novel. Again, she chose Sherlock Holmes, and again, he was perfectly content to do as she asked. She lay back and let his voice, reading the words of mystery and intrigue and danger, wash over her. By the time he finished reading _The Sign of the Four,_ the sky outside the window was dark and Claire was sound asleep on the sofa. He tucked a blanket around her and left her to sleep.

**_-o-_**

Hershel Layton awoke the next morning in his own bed. He quickly remembered that he'd had an impromptu houseguest, and so dressed before he went downstairs. Sure enough, Claire was already awake and about, looking no worse for wear having spent a night on the sofa. Again, she was preparing breakfast. Judging by the visible preparations scattered around the counters, he took a guess. "French toast?"

"It sounded good, and you had everything I needed to make it," she said with a ridiculous amount of cheer for this hour of the morning.

He smiled and glanced towards the window. The world outside was still a dismal grey. "The rain hasn't let up, I see?"

"I think it rained all night."

"I suppose that means another day in," Hershel said. "Will you be joining me?"

"If you don't mind company."

**_-o-_**

Today, Claire was in an artistic mood. Hershel had once teasingly called her a "scientific dreamer," and she had not denied it. While her passions lay with science, she had an artistic side, and was no slouch with a brush. She had been pestering him for some time to let her paint him. Today, he had no escape. She all but tackled him onto the sofa and spent a moment arranging him to her liking, a pose that was comfortable but would make for an interesting portrait.

Thus situated, she quickly grabbed the supplies that she had once stashed there on a whim, set up, and began to work.

For a time, the only soundtrack to her work was the rain against the window.

Then he spoke up. "How much longer?"

"As long as it takes."

"Will this actually look like me, or are you doing some abstract representation…thing?"

"It will look like you. Now sit still."

He managed to keep the smile firmly internal, but he did start wiggling around and changing his pose ever so slightly, earning himself a gentle rebuke and a roll of the eyes from the artist at work. ""Hershel, you're worse than a child sometimes," she laughed out loud at one point when she glanced up to check her model, and found that he was sticking his tongue out at her. "How gentlemanly you are!"

"A gentleman is allowed to have fun once in a while," he said, once again assuming the pose she had chosen for him. Then he frowned again. "What in the…what is that?" Momentarily forgetting that he was supposed to be holding a specific posture, he pointed at the ceiling behind her, in the corner. "Is that a crack?"

Claire glanced over her shoulder in the appointed direction, and her frown mirrored his. "It looks like one…"

He sighed and let his hand fall back to the armrest. "Did the foundation slip somehow?" She didn't reply, and after a moment, he tried again. "Claire?"

She had been staring at the crack in the ceiling with a strange look on her face. When he said her name, she seemed to shake herself from her momentary distraction and returned her focus to what was in front of her. "I'm sorry. I-I suppose it's possible that could have happened." She seemed paler, but she pasted a smile on her face (and perhaps it was just his imagination that her smile was just a bit too bright) and held up her brush. "Shall we finish this?"

**_-o-_**

That night, he went to bed early.

That night, he noticed another crack, this time in his bedroom - running from the floor near the door and arching halfway across the room.

That night, Claire crawled into his bed.

He was almost asleep, but started awake as the mattress shifted and a warm breath ghosted across his cheek in a whisper that gave away her identify. And then her lips met his in the darkness, and her arms found their way around his neck. They were both clothed, and nothing totally inappropriate happened, but Hershel did find himself getting a bit carried away as she pressed to him and held him close.

It was perfect. Everything was absolutely perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

**_-o-_**

"Claire."

There was no breakfast this morning, no light conversation or teasing remarks. She was standing by the sink, looking out the window. It was as if she knew this conversation was coming.

Outside the rain seemed to be pounding even harder. They were in London, and it did rain frequently, but this didn't seem right, somehow. And the cracks in the walls and the ceiling. Where had they come from? The place certainly wasn't the newest building in the city, but he maintained it well, and it had never shown signs of being in that bad of shape before. Yet in the last few days, it seemed to be falling apart around him.

And Claire...

"Claire…what's going on?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice calm. Something was wrong, everything was wrong, NOTHING WAS WRONG, this was wrong.

This was wrong.

"We haven't left the house in days. You've been wearing the same clothes since that first morning. You've slept here every night, and last night…something's changed," he said. For the first time, he hated his logical mind and his observational skills. He hated knowing what he had really known for days - that something was horribly wrong, and she knew what it was. "What's going on, Claire?"

A chunk of dry wall fell from the ceiling in the kitchen and crashed into the sink, sending a splash of soapy water sloshing over the metal edge. The house was not that old, there was no reason for these mysterious cracks to be forming. They had never been there before.

And while he struggled to find the words and put voice to them, Claire stood there with her hands clasped behind her back. Her eyes were kind, her smile beatific. She was waiting, waiting for him.

Hershel took a deep breath. He looked up at the hole in the wall over the sink, at the rain falling outside the window, at the water splashed on the floor, and back at her. "Claire, it wasn't a dream, was it?" In spite of everything, his voice stayed perfectly steady. "The explosion was real. It really happened."

"Yes, Hershel. It was real." Her expression did not waver. "I knew you'd figure it out sooner or later. You've always been so observant."

With that, it became all too clear, and his next words were blunt.

"…are we dead?"

The world, the house, everything around them burst into flames. It was hot, but they were not burned, even as the fire devoured their surroundings.

Claire shook her head. "You are not dead, Hershel."

He stared at her, unable and unwilling to process what she had not said.

For the first time in this conversation, she moved. She turned to look at the wall, giving him an excellent view of her profile. She began to pace slowly, moving through the engulfing flames like they were nothing more than blades of grass reaching up to pluck at her clothing. She barely even seemed to notice them.

"I died when the lab exploded. It was quick. I felt nothing," she explained. How one could be so serene when describing their own death was beyond Hershel's comprehension. Granted, at this moment, adding one plus one was beyond his comprehension. "The surrounding buildings caught on fire as well. You ran to the scene. You stopped a boy from running into the flats next door, where his parents were. You saved his life."

She reached the end of the kitchen and turned to begin pacing the other way with those same slow, even steps.

"Unfortunately, the fire was out of control. There was a secondary explosion - some fuel tanks in the basement of the flats ignited and exploded. And you saved that boy's life a second time when a large piece of debris came flying at the both of you. He was unharmed. You were not."

Now she stopped and turned to face him again. The flames grew higher, obscuring her body up to the waist.

"You are in a coma, Hershel, in a hospital bed. Now that you're aware of it, you should wake up soon."

He found his voice. "But you…you won't be…"

A shake of the head. "No, I won't."

The flames grew higher, their red-orange fingers scratching at her neck. The fires of the laboratory explosion that had taken her away from him. The fires of the secondary explosion that had nearly killed him as he protected another. The fires that were now to separate them forever. And she didn't even seem to notice them. She simply stood there as they swallowed her, turning the kitchen around them to blackened ruins and ashes.

He felt a pull on the back of his neck. He swatted at it with one hand, and moved quickly around the table. His hands grappled at her face, desperate to hold on somehow, but the tugging sensation intensified. At a loss for what else to do, he kissed her, hard and urgent and god this was not how a gentleman behaved but he really couldn't give a flying leap at this point.

And then he heard her words, in his ears and his mind and his soul. "It's not forever. We'll see each other again. It just might be a while, but we will see each other. I'll wait for you, Hershel." One last press of lips, and he was being dragged away as the flames swallowed her completely.

Claire was gone.

**_-o-_**

It was so much later, after Bill, after Dmitri, after Clive, that her words came true. They did see each other again.

And after he held her, kissed her, all but begged her not to leave, as she vanished around a corner to go back and face her true death, he found it was his turn.

_It's not forever._

_We'll see each other again._

_Wait for me, please, no matter how long it takes._

_Sooner or later, I will come to you._

**_Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need to know of hell._**  
**_- Emily Dickinson, "Parting"_**


	6. Boxed

**Title:** Boxed  
**Fandom:** Professor Layton  
**Characters:** Luke, Layton  
**Prompt:** #77: what?  
**Word Count:** 463 words  
**Rating:** PG  
**Author's Notes:** I do not own Professor Layton or his Top Hat of Awesome.  
**Summary:** After the conclusion of the Elysian Box affair, Luke asks an question with horrifying implications. Massive spoilers for game two. Blame TV Tropes for this one.

* * *

"Professor?"

Luke's voice was unusually timid, which was more than enough to pique the Professor's curiosity as to what was going through his young apprentice's head. He glanced up from his newspaper, where he was reading the story of his own mentor's miraculous recovery from his encounter from the Elysian Box. "What is it, my boy?"

Luke fidgeted. "So…the Elysian Box was full of a gas that caused hallucinations and things, right?"

"Correct."

"But the things weren't real, and given enough time, the person would recover, right?" He was glancing at the door now, perhaps seeing if Flora was returning. She had stepped out into the hall for a breath of air.

"As near as we can tell, yes."

"And Doctor Schraeder woke up, right?"

"Yes. Luke, where are you going with this?"

"Well…" Luke shifted. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap, and he studied his white knuckles with a single-minded intensity usually reserved for puzzles. "Professor, even you were convinced that Doctor Schraeder was dead. But he woke up from his death." Now Luke looked up, straight at his mentor. "What happened to all the others who died from the box?"

Layton opened his mouth to reply.

And quickly shut it again as the full implications of Luke's question slapped his squarely across the face.

It was a moment before he managed to choke out any words. All he could manage was, "Good heavens."

**_-o-_**

_He opened his eyes._

_The last thing he remembered was opening that box._

_And as he tried to move and found himself walled in on all sides, he realized that now he himself was now in a box._

_A very specific type of box._

_He pushed at it._

_The lid wouldn't budge._

_He smelled earth and moisture and the unmistakable stench of death._

_He screamed._

_But no one could hear him._


	7. All Wrapped Up

**Title:** All Wrapped Up  
**Fandom:** Professor Layton  
**Characters:** Luke, Layton  
**Prompt:** #92: Christmas  
**Word Count:** 366 words  
**Rating:** PG  
**Author's Notes:** I do not own Professor Layton or his Top Hat of Awesome.  
**Summary:** Luke made a very astute observation. For a toddler.

* * *

Christmas is a magical time for just about everyone, both children and their parents. Or guardians, as the case may be. And in spite of his general practicality about most things, Hershel Layton was no exception to this rule. Especially as he had a young child under his roof.

And Luke, as most six year old children will do, had taken to the holiday season with all manner of gusto.

Come Christmas morning, Luke had hot chocolate and Layton had tea, and the Professor sat on the couch and watched his young student scramble around the small pile of wrapped presents under the tree. Needless to say, it was extremely easy to determine which presents Layton had wrapped, and which ones were the result of Luke's handiwork.

Layton sighed to himself. Sooner or later he would have to stop the charade of Santa, but for now, at least, he was content to let the boy have his fun and enjoy the holiday. No sense in taking away the magic just yet. Luke was having fun scurrying around the tree, and Layton was having fun watching.

Luke picked up a present and plopped down on the floor at Layton's feet to open it. Suddenly, he paused and looked at the gift in his hands. Then he turned his eyes up to the Professor and flashed a grin, the smile he used when he felt he had discovered something very clever.

"Professor! Santa used our wrapping paper!"

Layton choked on his tea.

* * *

**PS.** _My younger sister actually said this one Christmas morning when she was seven and I was nine. We have video to prove it._


	8. Knitted Together

**Title:** Knitted Together  
**Fandom:** Professor Layton  
**Characters:** Layton, Flora  
**Prompt:** #8: weeks  
**Word Count:** 1575 words  
**Rating:** PG  
**Author's Notes:** I do not own Professor Layton or his Top Hat of Awesome.  
**Summary:** Layton is injured. But he's found his own form of physical therapy.

* * *

It was a ridiculous mistake, just a momentary lapse in concentration. But it was enough that Layton's foot went out from under him, sending him tumbling down the stairs. As the floor at the bottom of the staircase had rushed up to meet him, Layton had instinctively reached out to try and slow his fall and cushion the landing.

He realized what a big mistake that was when his hand hit the hardwood floor, only to be followed by the rest of his body. He heard a snap that was probably not as loud as it sounded in his ears, and then he was left to stare dazedly at his arm. An arm that was bent at an angle that was definitely not natural, and oh good heavens what had just happened…

Between pain and a small amount of confusion at what had just happened (how had he gotten down here when he had been halfway up the stairs a few seconds ago?), Layton's head felt a bit fuzzy. But he had to swim his way out of the fog because Luke and Flora appeared, asking what the noise and the shout had been about - had he shouted? So he had to calm the children down and get them to summon help, because he was in no fit state to drive.

A trip to the hospital later, his suspicion was confirmed when they told him that his arm was broken; he was surprised, however, to be told that it was actually broken in three places, two complete breaks and one hairline fracture. And a short time later, his arm was encased in a bulky white cast. According to the doctor, he would need to get used to that cast, because he was going to be wearing it for several weeks.

Once they had calmed down and been assured that their beloved professor was, in fact, not going to die from his unplanned and slightly violent trip down the stairs, Luke and Flora immediately demanded that they be allowed to decorate his cast. After some begging and pleading on their part, he acquiesced. After all, it was nicer to look at than the plain stark white. The result was extremely colorful, of questionable artistic merit, and led him to have a few staring contests with the lopsided purple kitten that now graced his wrist.

Ultimately, what felt like many weeks later, the bones had finally knitted back together and the cast came off. And Layton's arm lay there, looking limp and pale and not at all like it normally did, like it was supposed to. The doctor urged him to find something to do that, while not too strenuous, would require motion to increase muscle strength and restore dexterity and flexibility in his fingers, hand, and arm.

It was ultimately Flora who gave him the answer. He came in two days after the cast had been removed, cradling his injured arm in his uninjured one, contemplating what to do, and found her sitting in the study, a pair of knitting needles in her hands. When he asked, she smiled and said that it was something that Ingrid had taught her back in St. Mystere, long before she and the professor had met. It was something she liked to do now and then; she found it relaxing, even if she wasn't actually making anything.

Curious, Layton sat down beside Flora and watched for a moment as she worked. The needles moved quickly in her hands, flitting in and out, circling around each other in a pattern that was almost too quick for his eyes to follow (Flora was clearly an old hand at this, as her movements were quick, sure, and steady, her eyes barely ever glancing down towards what she was doing). With each movement, each twitch of her needles and each turn of her hands, the fabric she was coaxing from the ball of yarn in her lap grew longer.

After a moment of this, Layton glanced down at his newly healed arm, and remembered the doctor's words of suggestion - something to increase dexterity and flexibility. After a moment, he made his decision, and asked Flora if she had more yarn and a spare set of needles, and perhaps a bit of time to show him how it was done. After all, he said with a conspiratorial wink, a gentleman was always eager to learn new skills.

Flora looked delighted to be able to teach him something, for a change, and she quickly retrieved a second set of needles and another ball of yarn from the bag beside her chair.

Knitting was nowhere near as difficult as he had anticipated it might be. It was really a matter of using the needles to pull loops of yarn through other loops of yarn, shifting them from one needle to the other. There were only two main stitches (knit and purl), and according to Flora, nearly everything else was a variation of some kind on those two stitches. He had more difficulty with getting the yarn on the needle to actually start - the yarn kept getting twisted up. Flora called that step "casting on."

Layton called it ridiculous. Though he didn't actually say it out loud.

Still, he was a patient man by nature, and finally everything slotted into place. They ended up spending the entire afternoon seated together in the study, having a cup of tea and working. Their quiet conversation was punctuated by the soft clicking of knitting needles.

At first, Layton had difficulty holding the needles at all. His hand was not nearly as strong as it had been before its stint in a cast, and so he focused more on gripping the needle and making his fingers guide the yarn where it needed to go. But surprisingly, each time he picked the needles up, it got a bit easier to hold on and control the work in his hands.

The family fell into a bit of a routine. Layton still taught and worked, while Luke and Flora attended school and did all of the normal things that children their age did. In the evenings, though, when the remnants of dinner had been cleared away and the last homework problem had been worked through, they would gather in the study. Luke would read - he had recently discovered a new series of books (something about a series of troublesome events by an author named Orangey or some such thing?), and was devouring them at a breakneck pace. Or sometimes he would read aloud for the benefit of his comrades. And Layton and Flora would knit.

It was a time that they all quickly grew to look forward to.

Luke had looked surprised at his mentor's new hobby, but he was all for anything that would get the Professor's arm back to normal. Even if he personally had no interest in learning and not-so-privately thought that it was unmanly. Layton had smiled ruefully and shaken his head. Luke was growing up fast, but he still had a great deal to learn. Ah well, all things in due time.

A few weeks after that fateful afternoon when a unique form of physical therapy had landed in an unsuspecting professor's lap, Layton reported to his doctor for a check-up. The doctor was both pleased and surprised at his progress, and demanded to know what he had done to regain the use of his hand so fast. His expression at the Professor's reply ("My dear Flora taught me to knit. I've gotten quite skilled at it.") was not quite dumbfounded, but he did smile and say that he might start recommending that to other patients in similar situations.

It was with that declaration that Layton was given a clean bill of health and declared fully healed.

Immediately afterwards, he was pleased to present both Luke and Flora with hand-knitted scarves, the fruits of his rehabilitation. Flora immediately declared the yellow and brown creation her favorite, while Luke just wrapped his own blue and brown striped scarf around his neck and grinned his thanks.

All in all, a successful recovery.

* * *

**PS.** _Why yes, I am alive!_

_I actually do knit (and also quilt), and it really is as easy as described once you get the hang of it. Casting on actually is the toughest part. It's very relaxing - I don't even have to look at my hands anymore while I do it. Nice to do while I watch TV. I'm the kind of person who ALWAYS has to have something in my hands._

_Also, I did fall down the stairs quite some time ago in more or less EXACTLY the way described here. I was carrying a laundry basket, and thought I was at the bottom when I…wasn't. And my thoughts were exactly what Layton thought: "…I was up there a second ago. How did I get down here?" I didn't break anything, though - just sprained my foot really badly. Walking was fun for a few weeks._

_Thanks for reading! Much love!_


	9. A Gift Worth Giving

**Title:** A Gift Worth Giving  
**Fandom:** Professor Layton  
**Characters:** Luke, Layton  
**Prompt:** #91: birthday  
**Word Count:** 781 words  
**Rating:** PG  
**Author's Notes:** I do not own Professor Layton or his Top Hat of Awesome.  
**Summary:** Luke learns that there are very specific occasions when a gentleman may refuse the request of a lady. This is one of those times.

* * *

When Luke and Layton were shown to their table at the restaurant, they noticed that there were balloons adorning the table beside theirs. They had cause to ask about them when Luke's eighteen year old feet (which were finally leaving the awkwardness of adolescence) caught on the chair leg of the elderly woman seated there, nearly knocking her over. He caught the chair before she fell, righted her quickly and apologized profusely.

Thankfully, she smiled and seemed unfazed. "Wouldn't be the first time I've been knocked over, young man, and it certainly won't be the last. But I do appreciate your concern. It's so lovely to see such a polite young man as yourself."

"Thank you," Luke smiled, and decided to go ahead and ask since the door was open. "So what brings a young lady like yourself out tonight?" he asked cheerfully. His grin was impish to show he meant no disrespect to the very elderly woman at the table.

She giggled, bringing one wrinkled hand to her cheek and blushing like a schoolgirl. "It's my ninetieth birthday today, young man. My family here has brought me out to celebrate," she gestured towards the others at the table - two younger couples, whom Luke assumed were her children and/or in-laws.

Behind Luke, Layton tipped his hat in respect. "Well, a very happy birthday to you, my dear lady, and many more to come, I'm sure." Luke knew the professor well enough to know that tone - it meant the professor was in all probability smiling broadly with that kind twinkle in his eye. Sure enough, the elderly woman tittered again and offered her thanks. A few more pleasant words were exchanged, and both parties returned to their respective meals.

It was quite some time later, after the last morsel had been plucked from their plates and the check had been settled with the waiter, Luke and Professor Layton prepared to leave. It was just as he was about to stand up that the birthday girl at the next table over tapped Luke on the shoulder. "Excuse me, but I have a question."

"Yes, ma'am?" Luke said politely - after all, a gentleman is always polite to a lady.

"Well, you're a handsome young man."

"Thank you," he said, feeling a bit of heat rising in his cheeks.

"And I was wondering if you'd be willing to take off your shirt for me. You know, as a birthday gift."

…for a moment, Luke actually forgot what breathing was. And thinking. That's how long it took him to process what he had just heard. He blinked a couple of times, startled. None of the professor's lectures and lessons on gentlemanly behavior had covered a request such as this. And of course, Layton was perfectly silent behind him.

"I…ah," Luke began, then tried again, "I'm afraid I'll have to decline. But I'll take it as a compliment. Thank you." A glance over his shoulder proved that the professor appeared to be biting his lip, most likely to keep from laughing, if the merry expression in his eyes was any indication.

"Oh, all right. Thought I might as well ask," she said, not looking terribly disappointed or surprised at his refusal. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say. You two gentlemen have a lovely evening." They bid her the same, and escaped the restaurant. Neither spoke on their way out to the Laytonmobile, and it wasn't until after Layton had started the car that a word was said.

"You were laughing at me in there!" Luke said accusingly, though without malice.

"I'm afraid it was too amusing not to, my boy," Layton replied affectionately. "But your answer was fine. A gentleman does not refuse the request of a lady…provided that her request is reasonable. And I don't think she really expected you to say yes or do it. You made her smile on her birthday. That is sufficient."

Luke nodded. "I am perfectly content with that." He leaned back in his seat to settle in for the ride home as they stopped at a red light.

Just before the light turned green, another car pulled up beside them at the light, and the ninety-year-old woman from the restaurant stuck her head out. She was grinning. "Are you sure, young man? It's not too late!"

Luke couldn't help it - he laughed out loud. "I'm quite sure, but thank you!" Feeling impish, he blew her a kiss.

She laughed, and the two cars pulled away from the parking lot, going in opposite directions.

For a moment, the car was silent. Then…

"Professor, you are forbidden from telling Flora about this!"

"I make no promises, Luke."

* * *

**PS.** _Best part of this? It's based on a true story. Happened to my coworker and her son. It was just so funny that I filed it away as a possible plunnie, and here it is. Thanks for reading! Much love!_


	10. Bump in the Night

**Title**: Bump in the Night  
**Fandom**: Professor Layton  
**Characters**: Luke, Flora  
**Prompt**: #74: dark  
**Word Count**: 2349 words  
**Rating**: PG  
**Author's Notes**: I do not own Professor Layton or his Top Hat of Awesome.  
**Extra Notes**: This drew heavy inspiration from an episode of a Japanese TV program.  
**Summary**: The professor goes out of town for a night, leaving Luke and Flora alone. After all, how much can happen in one night?

* * *

"Are you sure you'll be all right?"

Flora managed to keep from rolling her eyes as she handed him his briefcase. "Professor, it's one night. You'll be back tomorrow evening. We'll be just fine. Now go enjoy the conference and don't worry so much."

At her side, Luke was nodding emphatically. "We can do it. Now go, and remember that you promised to bring us lots of stories!"

Still, Layton hesitated a bit. It wasn't that he didn't trust the children - he did, truly. They were growing up into young adults and become more mature and more responsible. Mentally, he knew that they would be fine while he was gone for one night. But still…

Luke seemed to sense his reluctance, and let out a perfectly pitched teenage sigh. "Professor, you're going to miss your train." To emphasize his point, he picked up the professor's suitcase and held it out to him with a pointed look.

Finally, Layton relented. "All right, all right, you've made your point." He took the suitcase, but paused at the front door. "Make sure you lock up the house after I leave. There's cold things in the kitchen. I've asked Edith next door to keep an ear out for you - if you have any troubles at all, go to her and she'll help you. Keep an eye on each other." He paused. "Have I forgotten anything?"

"Emergency numbers are by the phone," Flora piped up with a smile.

"Don't burn the house down," Luke added.

"No parties while you're gone," Flora grinned.

"If we do have a party, make sure it's all cleaned up before you get back," Luke rallied.

"All right, all right!" Layton laughed and raised his hands in surrender. "You've made your point. Well then, I suppose I'm off. Be safe, and I'll see you both tomorrow night." He gathered his things and headed out the door, down to the street where a taxi was waiting to take him to the train station. After throwing them one final wave goodbye from the curb, he vanished into the car and was gone, off into London's morning traffic.

Once the car was out of sight, Luke and Flora ducked back inside and locked the front door behind them.

They were on their own for two days and one night.

**_-o-_**

The day itself passed uneventfully and with only mild arguments. But for the most part, they spent the time more or less behaving themselves (after all, they had promised the professor, and they were sure he would forgive the "more or less" part), and as darkness fell, they sat in the kitchen and put together their dinner - the professor had made sure there were plenty of things that could be eaten cold.

After all, even Flora couldn't mess up making a sandwich, and Luke's cooking prowess was limited to boiling water - if there were things floating in the water cooking, however, he tended to get confused.

"I wonder what they're talking about at that conference," Flora said. "I've never been to one, but it sounds important!"

"I saw the pamphlets and stuff on the professor's desk. It's about history and archaeology," Luke said between mouthfuls. "They have sessions - the professor said they were like little classes. And they talk about new discoveries, new technology, problems and how they can be fixed…"

Flora brightened. "I had never heard of half this stuff before I met you two. I hope he brings back stories for us."

"He will! He promised!" Luke said, this time not bothering to wait until he was between mouthfuls. Flora wrinkled her nose at the sight - honestly, boys! Luke made a face back at her (after he swallowed), and the conversation quickly gave way into a contest to see who could make the goofiest face, which led immediately into a massive giggling fit as their makeshift meal drew to a close.

The last plate had just been washed and placed in the drainer to dry when there was a knock at the back door. They both hesitated and glanced at each other. Luke carefully lifted a corner of the curtain and peered out. Immediately he relaxed. "It's Edith, from next door," he said, relieved. That was good enough, and Flora undid the deadbolt and the chain lock and opened the door.

Sure enough, the elderly woman from next door was standing there, smiling at them. "Hello, dears," she said. "I just thought I'd come over and make sure you were all right before I turned in for the night. It's almost my bedtime."

"We're all right," Flora said. "Thank you for coming over, though."

Edith seemed satisfied. "All right, dears," she always called them dears, "I'm in for the night, then. If you need me, come and wake me up. I know it's early, but when you get to be my age...well, that's what you do. Good night!" She waved and headed back down the short path that connected her yard with the professor's.

Flora shut the door and flipped the deadbolt. "She's so nice."

"Her husband died a couple of years ago. The professor was worried about her, and he stops in and visits her sometimes to make sure she doesn't get too lonely or see if she needs anything," Luke said, hanging the dishtowel back in its place. "After all-"

"That's what a gentleman does?" Flora interrupted.

"Yup!" Luke laughed. "To tell you the truth…" he leaned in and whispered the next part with a grin, "...I think she's a bit sweet on the professor!"

Now they were both laughing as they left the kitchen and headed back towards the study.

**_-o-_**

Much later, Flora was still awake. She had turned in at something of a reasonable hour, deciding that she would read for a while before she went to sleep. But no matter how many pages she turned, she just didn't seem to feel tired. There was a tiny knot of anxiety in the very pit of her stomach, and although she tried to ignore it, she knew what it was.

It was nighttime. It was dark. Every single stupid story she had ever heard about things going bump in the night was coming back to her. And the professor wasn't here.

She felt a little bit silly. They were safe in the old brownstone. This night was no different from any other. Yet there was that little sense of 'what if' niggling at her. Flora gave herself a shake and a mental scolding at her own silliness and turned back to her book. A few more pages, and then she would sleep, she decided.

Three chapters later, she jumped when there was a knock at the door.

"Flora?" Luke's voice came through the heavy wood.

She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Come in."

The door opened partway and Luke's disheveled head popped in. "I saw your light was on. You can't sleep either?"

"No. I'm wide awake."

"It shouldn't be that different without the professor here, but it is."

"Oh, thank goodness. It's not just me." Flora was relieved to hear her own thoughts coming out of Luke's mouth. It made them seem less silly.

"I'm going down to get a snack. Want to come with me?"

She glanced at the clock on her nightstand - it was just shy of two o'clock in the morning. A perfect time for a snack.

"Why not?" She crawled out of bed and grabbed her robe off the chair before the two of them toddled downstairs in pajamas and slippers in search of some late-night nibbling. Everything was exactly as they had left it; somehow, that was reassuring. It only took a minute to rustle up some meat, cheese, and crackers, and they tucked in.

As they were finishing, Flora finally felt her eyelids starting to droop. In the entryway, she heard the clock finally chime the hour of two o'clock in the morning. "Do you think it'll matter if we leave the dishes until the morning?"

"Nope." Apparently Luke felt exactly as she did. "Mind if I head up?"

"I'll put these in the sink, then," Flora gathered up the two plates while Luke yawned and started towards the stairs.

It was then that they heard the noise.

Both children froze and looked around before their eyes came to rest on the back door. Beyond that, there was a thumping noise, like heavy footsteps, and a growling noise that sent chills down their spines. The air in the room seemed to stand still.

Then doorknob turned, slowly. Then the door started to shake.

It was only then that they both noticed something - the deadbolt on the door was locked.

The chain lock, however, was dangling free and unfastened.

"Flora-" Luke started to speak behind her, but he was interrupted.

The locked deadbolt flipped, right before their eyes, and the door started to open.

Flora was closer, and she was older. She dove at the door and grabbed the knob and pulled back, fighting desperately to close it against whatever was growling out there. At the same time, she screamed in a way that she never had before, "Luke, run! Hide!"

Instinct took over, and Luke didn't need to be told twice. He dove into the first hiding place he found - the closet under the stairs. He burrowed back amidst the coats and boots and waited, heart pounding and head spinning, breath coming in hurried gasps even as he tried not to breathe.

A second later, he heard a crash, followed by a terrible scream.

Flora.

Luke held his breath and waited.

Seconds passed in silence.

Then the doorknob to the closet jiggled, and started to turn. Luke's eyes followed the slow movement…

The door flung itself open, and then-

**_-o-_**

Flora's eyes snapped open, and she was out of bed before she even realized what she was doing, nearly going head over teakettle as she wrestled free of the bedding. Her eyes darted around every corner of the room, searching for a sign of what had happened, of the growling and the noises and the shadow…

Nothing. It was just her room. Her book lay on the floor beside her bed - she must have fallen asleep while reading and had that horrible dream. She stood there for a few seconds while her breathing started to return to normal.

The sound of a door opening in the hallway caught her attention, and she rushed to her own door, opening it to find Luke coming towards her. In the glow from her lamp, she could see that he looked terrified. She instinctively opened her arms and he ran right into them for a hug. "Luke, I just had a horrible nightmare!"

"Me too!" Luke said, muffled against her shoulder.

A trickle of unease slid down Flora's spine. "What did you dream about?"

"There was a shadow. It came in the back door and killed us!" Luke all but wailed.

Flora froze. Luke sensed her tension and leaned back to look at her as he seemed to realize what was wrong.

Downstairs, the grandfather clock rang out, filling the silence.

It was two o'clock in the morning.

As one, the two children bolted down the stairs. Flora actually jumped the last three steps and used the railing as leverage to whip herself around into the corridor that lead to the back of the house. The dash from the upstairs hallway to the kitchen downstairs took mere seconds.

The deadbolt was locked, but the chain lock was still undone.

Flora's fingers were trembling, but she managed to wrestle the lock into submission and shoot it home. As soon as it clicked into place she stumbled back a few steps, bumping into Luke. The two of them stood there for a long moment, staring at the door. Then they turned and looked at each other.

Luke broke first, and let out a tiny, nervous laugh. Flora responded with a giggle of her own. The tension broke, and they both slumped over a little bit, feeling relieved and a bit silly. "Come on, let's go back to bed," Flora said. "It was just a dream."

They took one step.

And heard the growl.

Both spun around and stared at the door.

Then, exactly as both had dreamt, the doorknob began to twist ever so slowly.

Luke wrapped both arms around Flora's waist, and she instinctively clung to him as well as they stared, transfixed. It was just like the nightmare...

The deadbolt flipped.

The door whipped open-

Stopping after only inches. The chain was holding, keeping the door from opening the rest of the way.

In that small opening between the doorframe and the door, there was pitch black. In London at night, there was always some sort of ambient light - streetlights, taxis, cars, neighbors' windows. It was never truly dark in the city. But what they saw beyond the door was true darkness. And it seemed to be watching them.

For a long moment, they neither moved nor breathed.

Then, from the blackness outside, a voice came - a gravelly voice that sounded exactly like the growling they had heard earlier.

"This isn't how it happened in the dream."

The door slammed shut.


End file.
